At First, By Chance
by j4ws
Summary: At first, by chance; but then a little on purpose. Remy Orwell meets a few of the Doctors over the years, working her way into both of his hearts and hoping to survive along the ride. There's some 9, some 10, some 11, and maybe more. Mostly a friendship fic, but who knows what could happen. Rated T for safety.
1. Prologue

Ah, shit, where do I begin?

It was weird—the way we met—and I honestly don't think it could have played out any better, what with our unconditionally disastrous luck.

Should I start with the first time?

I'll take the silence as a yes.

* * *

_Author's Note:_

Okay, these first few chapters are going to be short. Stick with me, though! I promise we'll get through it.

There's a lot of mystery going on in these incidents. I won't be so quick to give it away though; so don't think you've won!

**Disclaimer: Doctor Who belongs to BBC. They should totally let me own a little bit of Matt and David, though. That'd be nice. And probably all the other cast members ever, too, while they're at it.**

I always swore I'd never do this, but rating and reviewing and following and favorite-ing and all that jazz is greatly appreciated.


	2. The Ninth

It was November 23, 1992. I remember the date, you see, because earlier that morning I had a kiss planted firmly on my lips by a _boy. _Now, don't think this was just any ordinary kiss. This was a quick peck from _the_ cutest boy in the entire fourth grade, _the _Oliver Wilson. Okay, I realize that was very cheesy; but with great importance comes great cheesiness. Is that even a word? It is now.

Back to the point. That morning, after the fabulous kiss, my mother and I had left the sanctity of our little village in Maryland for the hustle and bustle of Times Square. It was a nice little weekend adventure, but out of all the shopping sprees and restaurant detours, I remember this one particular moment the most.

My mother had taken me just a few blocks outside the center of Times Square so we could enter with proper dramatics. We were walking along the sidewalk underneath a construction platform, when I smelled a strange scent that was what nothing like construction—let alone New York City—should smell like. The aroma was like a mixture of fruits all in one; it was almost like a candle out of a grocery that reeked of satsumas, strawberries, and limes. Let me emphasize _almost_, though, because it was the sweetest and most pleasant scent my nose had ever had the pleasure of sniffing. When I looked up to my mother, she wasn't fazed. I remember though, the smell so strong and sweet, how couldn't she have noticed?

So we trotted along, finally entering the focus of our destination. Excitement travelled up from our tummies to our noses and we knew that this beautiful city held in store for us a weekend that we desperately needed.

And _that _was when I felt it. This instant, unnerving surge of sorrow and sadness shook my being, causing my hand to slip out of my mother's. I turned around, and that was when I saw him… Staring straight at me. His eyes plunged into my soul. I could almost read him. _Almost_ being the key word, again. I saw enough to know that he'd lost something very important. He was so hurt and alone.

I paced over to him and grabbed his hand with both of mine. My mom was busy on the phone with my dad, so I knew I had a good minute or two. I smiled at him and a smile crept onto his face, too. His clothes were tattered and worn, but he didn't look homeless. He looked new, fresh.

"Mister," I mumbled, then gathered up my courage and spoke clearly. "Mister, you know what would look good on you?"

"What then?" His voice was very northern and very _not_ American.

I furrowed my brow, preparing myself to be frustrated with the refusal I knew he'd make. "You'd look good in a big leather jacket. It'd match your funny ears." I de-furrowed my brow and let my smile shine through again. "I bet you could wiggle them!"

He smiled and patted my head. "I think you may be right. Haven't tried it yet. Brand new me, whole new things I never even knew about!"

"You're silly," I laughed. Looking back, I can see now how daft I was and how right he was. "But you know what? Before I go, I want to say," I sniffed his sleeve, "You smell like the sweetest stuff I've ever smelled. It's fantastic!"

"Woah there, big word! I quite like that word. 'Fantastic.' Thank you very much, little one. I'll be sure to heed your advice." He smiled as I let go of his hand. I watched him walk down the street and into a big blue box.

"Remy!" I turned around to acknowledge my mother's call, then waved her over to where I was. "There you are! What were you doing?"

"Just lookin'," I replied, turning back around only to find the blue box had disappeared.


	3. The Tenth

After that meeting when I was 10, I had an odd feeling that my life would make a subtle shift. The subtle shift—would, in turn— bring about big adventure. As soon as we returned home from New York, I opened my calendar to November 23 and marked down "Big ears, NYC."

About four years later on November 23, 1996, I smelled the aroma again as I was walking along the breezeway in my high school. I turned around to see a tall man in a trench coat standing right behind me, presumably about to ask me for my hall pass.

"I swear, I just left the bathroom. I'm headed back to class right now and—"

He cocked his eyebrow and I saw a familiar smile creep across his cheeks as he passed my hall pass back to me.

"—and I have this funny feeling you are not a teacher," I smiled back, the panic flushing itself from my body like I had just done to the toilet in the bathroom a few moments ago.

Whoops, sorry. Too much information.

"I have this funny feeling that you may be right about me," he beamed while reaching up to adjust the glasses that rested on his nose. "Now, run along. If you don't tell, I won't." He winked and began to move away when I called out for him again.

"Hold on just one second, if you don't mind." He stopped in his tracks and turned back to face me. "I know that smell. I smelled it four or five years ago in New York. I met this man… he had funny ears. He needed a leather jacket…"

His eyes widened and I knew I'd struck a chord. "What?" I heard him mutter as his hand delved deep into his coat's pockets for an item unknown to me.

"Do you know him? Can you tell me who he was?" I reached out for his hand like I had done another man in Times Square so long ago. Instead of finding his hand, though, I ended up tugging on the sleeve of his trench coat. "There was just something about him. I need to help him." I searched his eyes, pleading. The only reaction I could find was shock, surprise, and a hint of "what lie am I supposed to come up with today?"

"Listen," I started again, my final attempt. "If you feel like you need to suddenly inform me you know of him, my name is Remy Orwell. Since you don't have paper or pen or anything and you're in my school, I'll just let where we are be reference. I just want to know if he's okay; if the hurt's gone."

He nodded his head. "Yes, yes, of course. Well," he pursed his lips for a moment, then continued. "Toddle off to class and I'll toddle off as well. Off you go." He smiled at me and patted my head before we both quietly agreed to saunter off.

The next day, my gym blew up.


	4. Hair Boy?

When I returned home that day, after seeing the tall one in the trench coat, I pulled out an old calendar and pinned it back onto the wall. When I looked back to the then-current calendar, I marked down the encounter I had earlier that day as "Hair Boy: Freshman Year."

After that meeting, changes shifted from subtle to just plain weird. At first, it wasn't really noticeable. It took me a while to figure it out. Sometimes it would be months between the meetings. Sometimes it would be weeks, sometimes days. But each time wasn't me running into someone who smelled too sweet for words and having odd conversations with said someone. No, it wasn't that at all. It was more like I'd smell him, but when I'd turn around there'd be no one there. Or, I'd see part of a brown coat flying through a doorway followed by a dirty white converse from the leg under it. Not always was it a trench coat, either. Sometimes it'd be a leather jacket or an umbrella or a long, colorful scarf. The scarf was my favorite because sometimes, when I was lucky, it'd get caught in a door.

On one of those occasions, I remember, the scarf got hung on a gate. I had enough time to run over to the gate and look over the man and get a good look at his face. A black-ish felted fedora rested atop the brown, curly mop on top of his head that one could only assume was _not_ a wig. His eyes were a bit sunken in with a nearly crazed look about them. Oh, and great cheekbones.

My calendars soon filled up, leaving very few empty blocks. I had come up with names for all the ones I'd seen: White Hair, Grumpy Recorder, Dandy, Scarf, Celery, Curly Top, Question Mark, Fancy Pants, Big Ears, Hair Boy, and Bow Tie. Not only were my calendars full, but so were my walls. Calendars, pictures, letters, and stories from the first chance meeting in 1992 all the way up until the year when all these meetings finally set something big in motion: 2002.

It had been ten years to the _day_ since Big Ears, NYC, when I saw Hair Boy for what had to have been the 21st time. Whether he had seen me or not—or even, whether he'd known I was there somewhere or not—was no issue. Today would be the day when I would get some answers. So when I'd seen the back of his coat across the store in the mall, I knew it was my chance.

I walked up behind him and tugged on his sleeve, "Hair Boy, we meet again. Never even got in contact with me, I see."

He turned around with something in his hand—silver thing, blue at the end—like he was going to use it as a weapon. I leaned back on my heels and watched him cock his eyebrow while his eyes searched my face. I gave him a minute before it finally clicked in his head and he opened his mouth to speak. "You're the girl from the school, oh, how long ago was that for you? Blimey, seems like years."

"Well, good guess, because it has been. And you haven't changed one bit." I held out my hand for him to shake it, while reintroducing myself. "Remy Orwell, at your service. Now, I need some answers."

**X**

He came along almost too willingly, and soon we found ourselves sitting in the food court. He ended up being the one who started the conversation that I desperately needed to have with him. "Weell, Remy Orwell. Look at you! Popping up all over my timeline and I don't have a clue who you are. So then tell me… who are you?"

"What?" My eyes widened in disbelief. "Who am I? I'm supposed to be the one asking who _you_ are!" I brought my hands up to my face and dragged them down, along with an overly dramatic sigh and an all too drawn out eye-roll. "I've seen _you_ God knows how many times—," I started again, slightly lying. I knew exactly how many times I had seen Hair Boy, along with the rest. "—and I've seen people to what seems like your equivalent even more than that! How are you all related and why do you keep popping up?"

"Wait, I'm sorry. Hold on. Shh," he started to talk, but I had no idea where he was going with it. Synonyms to his "hold ons" and shushings just kept spewing out of his mouth for a while, until he, too, realized he was going nowhere and got back to the matter at hand. "'Equivalents' of me? What do you mean?"

"Well," I scooted myself closer towards the table and started the story off in New York, those ten years ago. I told him of all the sightings. Of the calendars (I left out the pictures, and the stories. Come on, even I can get embarrassed) and the letters and the mysteries of him. Then I told him of that smile. No matter which person—always looking nothing like each other— the smile was still the same. And the smile wasn't the only thing. That beautiful, wonderful smell was forever imprinted in my soul. The smell was my second way of identifying him. The third reason, you ask, was the hurt.

He emanated hurt just as much as he emanated odd nuances.

Lame analogy, sue me.


	5. Still With the Ten

"Well," I said, leaning onto the back of my chair and drawing out the word just as he had earlier. "Now that you know all about me and my encounters, it only seems fair that I know a bit about you."

His hands rose from the table to hold his head at his jawline while he took a moment to digest the information. Again.

"Yeah, it seems fair," he started, "But just because it seems that way doesn't mean it'll happen." He stood from his chair and looked me over, preparing his exit speech before I stopped him.

"Oh no, you don't." I grabbed the sleeves of his coat and yanked him back down to sit at the chair. "I have waited much too long."

"There's nothing I can do! I'm just about as lost as you are, quite honestly!" he tried to defend himself.

"Oh, come off it. I'm not asking you to _do_ anything about it." Reluctantly, I let go of his sleeves. "Start out with your name. And _don't_ say John Smith. You've already tried that one on me."

He sighed, defeated. "I'm the Doctor."

"Doctor _who?_"

"Ugghhhhh," he groaned, "Just the Doctor."

"All right." I lifted an eyebrow, curious, and sorted out the rest of my questions in my head. "That thing, silver and blue thing. What is it?"

The frustration on his face began to fade as he became interested in his words. I guess he realized he'd be there until I got what I wanted. "Sonic screwdriver! Works on everything except wood. Harmless, really. Doesn't kill, doesn't wound, doesn't maim."

I nodded my head and resumed my position against the back of the chair. "Who are all those people I keep running into? Include yourself, please."

"Me."

"What?"

"You keep running into _me._ The scarf, the celery, the leather— it's all me."

My eyes widened in disbelief. "You're kidding." Those same eyes slammed shut and opened again; I was almost sure he'd been trying to play a trick on me. "How in the hell is that possible?"

"It's complicated. Timey wimey, spacey wacey stuff."

My arms bent up and folded over my chest as I scoffed. "What are you, an alien or something?" A chuckle started to follow, only to be cut short by his response.

"Well, yeah." He replied, his voice rose a pitch or two and then dropped back down again as he continued. "I suppose this is all a bit much for the first real conversation though. I'd better be off."

"No, please! Just, uh… woah." Just then, a slight hint of vertigo seeped into what felt like the top of my skull. "I'm fine, just, plea—ah!" I was cut off by my own yelp when what felt like a hammer being slammed against my head jolted me. The feeling remained until it worsened, like the hammer was repeatedly rejoined to my bone. I shifted my eyes around the open court, occasionally coming across a blurred object—person, plant—thing. It was something—and it _sucked_. I cupped my hands over my ears and involuntarily let out a strained whimper. My body curled up on the chair and then…

Wham! I couldn't see a thing. The shock value of that alone just about hit me like a ton of bricks, not to mention the intense pain in my eyeballs. The nerves in my vision centers doubled over just as I did. It was hard for me to decide whether my eyes were closed or I had gone blind, but when I regained my vision I saw the Doctor leaning towards me, mouthing something. All I could hear was an elongated beeping noise. Once again, I scoped the court only to see the blurred objects fade in and out. That was when I noticed that the pain worsened when I saw the figures.

Just as quickly as it came, the intensity in my head vanished.

"Are you all right?" The familiar voice was low in volume, but gradually rising. I refused to open my eyes and un-curl. "Are you okay? What happened? Remy?"

"What the hell was that?!" I squeaked. In extreme reluctance, I began to unravel; all the while, though, my eyes remained tightly shut.

"Why won't you open your eyes?" I felt his hands on my forearms. It didn't feel forced. It felt more like it was instinctual and habitual to him (to touch, that is), in order to comfort and help.

I hesitated a moment, before finally opening one eye-lid just a sliver, just enough to peak through. I saw the Doctor, almost directly under my hung-low head. "I don't want to see them. It hurts when I see them."

"See who?" His face was genuinely clueless. Or rather, as clueless as you can get while thinking up multiple ideas and theories for why a twenty-year-old girl won't open her eyes.

I, on the other hand, thought he was just being weird. "What do you mean, 'See who?' The big things, they were everywhere! Please tell me you saw them."

"I…" he started, his voice husky, "I didn't see anything. I'm sorry, I'm so sorry."

Slowly, my eyes began to flutter open. I could see him more clearly now. The Doctor's eyes would shift down to the floor, as if he was thinking, and then they would dart back up to me. While searching my face, his eyebrows would rise slightly and create little wrinkles in his forehead. I decided that, to avoid the head ache (literally), I would keep my eyes on the Doctor.

And that's exactly what I did. Looking back, it was actually a pretty clever theory. As long as my eyes were on him, I wouldn't see whatever I saw. Not only that, but he wasn't all that bad to look at, either.

So I watched him rise from the floor and, using his thumb, extend the top part of his screwdriver. He scanned the surrounding tables and pathways, and the sound of the sonic soothed the lingering twinges in my head. "Doctor…," the name escaped my mouth before I could control it.

In my peripheral, I saw what I didn't want to see. A blurred figure was standing a ways past him, fading in and out like a static television. I focused more on the Doctor and the sweet sound of the sonic; however, I couldn't stop the pain from resurfacing.

As the Doctor turned to face me, the figure disappeared. And I so hoped it was the last one.


	6. Six Months Later

That day, the Doctor left me back at home. He did, however, promise me he'd be back, whether he liked it or not.

After all, no matter which form he took, he always seemed to come back.

So, returning to the horrifying evening at the mall, I'll summarize.

The Doctor walked me back to my apartment, not far from the mall, and explained to me that because I was the only one that saw the creatures, he didn't have a way of finding out whom or what they were. This, at the moment, was fine by me, as long as I had his handsome face tucking me into bed and making me tea.

I didn't even like tea. But if Hair Boy is making it, who was I to be picky?

Just before I passed out, due to the sudden sickness in my head and the coziness of my bed (oh, okay, I'm a poet now), the Doctor mentioned that he put some kind of powder in the tea. He also said something about how, the next time I ingested the powder, the memories of the day would vividly—painfully—resurface.

But then, blankness.

So, here I am six months later with Mr. Bow-Tie by my side, in my apartment, about to relive the dreadful experience.

I do like this Doctor; he tells me he's the Eleventh and newest regeneration. But, between you and I, he's not as handsome as Hair Boy. He does have a sort of boyish charm. It's adorable.

"Come on, Remy, we haven't got all day. Just let me pour the mixture in the cup, please!"

I push his hands away from my tea. Grabbing the cup, I stand and swiftly cross the room, protecting the tea.

Did I mention? Since I last saw Hair Boy, I developed an insatiable taste for Earl Gray.

"Can you just give me a freaking minute to prepare myself? I'm about to relive my brain being viciously harassed. It's like mind-reading gone haywire!"

Bow Tie is like a seven-year-old, I swear. He makes this derpy pout, then readjusts the muscles in his face and pulls out his sonic—not at all blue and silver, I've found. "Remy, don't make me use this. I have to find out what was in your head!"

"It doesn't work on wood, loser!" I poke my tongue out at him and race out my front door. Before I get too far, I check to make sure he's not behind me, when I realize he's nowhere near me.

Oh, running out the door to my own apartment, bad decision.

I run back to the door, only to find that he's soniced it locked. I hear him laugh from inside. "I told you not to make me use it." I snicker, then inaudibly admit to myself that I am a little irritated. But he's not giving me any time to prepare myself. Resting my back against the door, knowing full well he's peeking out the window at me, I inhale deeply and then turn myself to once again face the door.

"Are you quite done being childish?" I hear from inside again.

I let out a good-hearted sigh. "Let me in before I change my mind."

The sonic whirs, the door clicks unlocked, and I push through into my sitting room.

As soon as I'm seated, it's evident that he's already poured the horrible, terrible psychic powder in my drink. I take another breath, nuzzle the back of my neck into the back of the couch, and take a sip of my now terrifying Earl Gray.

Before I know it, the floor is covered in tea and the shattered remains of a ceramic teacup. I don't know how I looked, but it must have been ridiculous. The pain is absolutely excruciating, and the memories equally as detailed. I can feel the Doctor's trench coat brush against my leg as he kneels next to me, studying my face. Fear re-nests itself in the pit of my stomach.

I'm not okay, I'm not okay, I'm not o—ow!

"Fuck!" I scream, flinging my eyes open and running my hand over my neck. "I'm bleeding! What did you do?!"

"Hold on, hold on! You can't rush these things, Remy!" I hear him mumble something under his breath.

I bring my hand back to my neck and then pull it away to examine how much blood is coming out. "Doctor, I'm bleeding… Quite profusely!"

The Doctor looks up, catching a view of the blood now running past my collar bone, and emits a disgusted "yowzah." He brings a small device up to my neck and speaks again. Muttering to more to himself than me, he starts with, "The sight of that much blood is just plain unsettling." Then, he focuses his eyes on mine and picks up his volume. "This won't hurt a bit."

Before I can even allow the sarcasm to work its way up my vocal chords, I'm shouting variations of curse words and the word "ouch."

His eyes are apologetic and just as mischievous. "I lied."

"I can tell," I spit the words at him like venom, running my hand over my neck again to find all traces of blood are now null and void. "What'd you do to make me bleed like that?"

"It was only a little prick, I don't see why you bled so much. You must have some kind of blood issue, maybe—"

"Anemic. Very anemic."

He brings the sonic up to another device he holds in his hand. "Oi, I was getting there! I'm very clever, you know." When the sonic doesn't make the noise he wants, he whacks it against the edge of the coffee table and tries again.

"What's—," we must have gained some sort of habit of cutting each other off.

"This? It's a medscanner." He shifts it into my line-of-sight and continues, "I'll bring it back to the TARDIS, pop in the hard-drive, and we'll get a picture of what you've seen!" He smiles and pats my leg, then throws himself towards the door. "Pictures, I like pictures. Nice, big pictures. Always a help."

Standing, I steady myself and pace over to him. "Wait, wait. Too many words, not enough time," I wave my hand in front of him, making sure I have his attention. "First: 'TARDIS'?"

"I haven't shown you yet?" The Doctor's face immediately lights up when he realizes I'm clueless. "Wait, hold on. I saw it, but I missed it." His hand meets his forehead with a loud smack.

"Hold on. Saw what?" My subconscious lifts my eyebrow.

Did I say his face was lit up? Well, I lied. I guess that was just his normal happy.

The reason being is because now, he is almost literally emanating light. I must be turning into some sort of psychic, I feel like he's so bright I can see his aura.

"Typing. You were typing, on the computer. About your whole past with me."

My hand then meets his forehead with a half-playful smack. I have to credit myself on this one, because unlike him, I do know my own strength when it comes to slapping. "So, you were snooping."

"Don't say that, no." He sniffles, knowing I'm right, and readjusts his face to half-way spit his lie at me. "I just have good eyesight, is all. Anyways!" He's beginning to open the door now. "All you _really_ know about me is that I regenerate. I must be lacking or something, I can't believe you don't know yet."

"Wait," I snap my finger in front of his eyes to reclaim his attention. "What haven't you shown me?"


End file.
